


Blood and Bronze

by firefly_quill



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28559979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefly_quill/pseuds/firefly_quill
Summary: Before Patroclus, Achilles was destined for blood, and for greatness, glory and war. And Patroclus was destined to defend.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> ...yes I'm going to make them fight, I'm sorry ;-;
> 
> My initial idea for this story much more...um...rated E than this current version will be, but then I remembered I don't really know how to write that. I might still try later! I'd love to hear your thoughts if you had the time <3

Elysium was a paradox. 

It was a place of eternal rest, created as a reward for those who had excelled in life by not resting. It provided peace for those who were best at war. And yet, between Lord Hades’ design and the will of the former heroes, Elysium did somehow achieve an equilibrium within itself in this duality.

For Achilles’ part, it was neither the peace nor the glory that he was after. Elysium’s appeal sat serenely in one of its most beautiful glades, his eyes fixed on the glade’s entrance, eternally waiting for Achilles’ arrival. It was only Patroclus that Achilles sought, although if he were delayed by a good fight or two on the way, he couldn’t complain there either. 

While the number of chambers that stood between him and his beloved was ever-shifting, something in him always knew when Patroclus’ chamber was within reach, and it was exactly this warm, buzzing anticipation that ignited in his heart right now. He hurried past the ethereal shields and spears that marked the place of those who had stood in his way towards the exit, but found his path blocked by a pulsing red orb that flickered unnaturally amongst Elysium’s sea of blues and greens.

_“It has been far too long, my friend.”_

It was a voice that Achilles had hoped never to hear again, approaching from no direction and all directions at once. The red glow burned brighter, the light and heat from it becoming so unbearable that Achilles staggered back several steps, and shielded his eyes. When he turned again, Lord Ares stood in front of him, tall and gleaming, the gold of his armour catching fire under the false Elysian sun, a sight that Achilles had sometimes exalted in life, but that now filled his heart with a cold dread.

Still, a god must be given his due. 

Achilles took a step back and bowed low. “Lord Ares.” 

Ares reached down and lifted Achilles’ chin with his finger, tilting his face upwards to meet him in the eyes, so that there was nowhere to hide. 

“You are not as happy to see me as I would have hoped,” Ares observed.

“I am simply surprised by your sudden appearance.” Achilles had always been a horrible liar. 

Ares laughed, but as often was the case, the sound did not quite count as mirth, and the laughter did not quite reach his eyes. “The boundaries between the surface and the Underworld were made more permeable by our recent festivities. My Lord Uncle kept it thus, as a show of goodwill.” 

“Ah,” Achilles stood fully and Ares took a step closer still to fill the space between them. Achilles braced himself, refusing to step back. “And what is your will on this visit, Lord Ares?”

“My will is as it has always been,” Ares intoned, he took a step to the side and Achilles let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He could feel Ares’ eyes on him though as the god circled, a motion mimicking one who might inspect a soldier in his ranks, but with far too much intimacy. “I am here to inspire mortals to greatness.” 

“Greatness.” Bitterness seeped into Achilles’ voice without his permission. “Is that what you call it?” 

“Do not forget your place, mortal,” Ares warned, his breath hot and biting, and far too close to the back of Achilles’ neck. “Do you not remember who made you?”

“I was unmade by your hand as well,” Achilles replied softly. 

“Come, where is that old fire?” Ares taunted. He had completed his evaluation and had returned to peer at Achilles full on with his burning red eyes. “That taste for blood and glory?”

“Gone, my lord,” Achilles answered as neutrally as he could. “Dulled in death.” 

“Hah,” Ares laughed again. “Such a thirst cannot be dulled. Especially not in such a prodigy of death-dealing, such as yourself.”

He reached a hand forward again to turn Achilles towards him, almost tenderly. Achilles balked at it. He was accustomed now only to Patroclus’ touch, and this felt completely wrong. Ares frowned at him. “You remember the feeling, don’t you? It is in your bones.” 

“I no longer have bones, my lord,” Achilles replied with a wryness reminiscent of his beloved. It was not beyond Ares’ notice. 

“His influence, yet again,” Ares tore his hand away and scowled. They’ve had this conversation before, long ago, when real blood still flowed hot through Achilles’ veins. “In your soul then. In the heart of you that cannot die. That fire remains.”

Achilles bit back the impulse to retaliate against the insult to Patroclus. “I have no such rage. And I will not fight for you.” 

“It is good that I am the veritable fount of it then. Rage, that is.” Ares leaned forward. “Take Hector, for instance.” 

Achilles flinched, and Ares’ smile grew. 

“Not much of a spirit in that one. No, in truth, he was closer in temperament to your Patroclus.” 

Achilles gripped his spear more tightly at hearing his beloved’s name. The air grew thick with a heat that didn’t seem possible in Elysium.

“But he, too, was swayed enough somehow to penetrate your men’s defenses. To penetrate your own armor in fact—”

“Cease this,” Achilles snapped. Despite not requiring breath, Achilles found himself struggling for it: the oppressive heat seeped into his lungs, filling his chest with its familiar fumes. 

“And how exactly do you think it was possible for that kitten of a man to take Patroclus down?” Lord Ares asked, his eyes bright with a victory he had not yet earned. This arrogance fueled the heady fever that was searing Achilles’ skin.

“Don’t. Say. His. Name,” Achilles hissed. Anger gathered in his throat, making it difficult to speak. A cold sweat slicked his grip on his spear, and yet it had not felt so alive in his hand in a very long time. 

“Come, Achilles, you know my methods,” Ares purred, pressing a hand that was far too hot against Achilles’ face once again. “Some would question the destruction that you could sow. I would indulge it.”

“No!” Achilles snarled, pulling away, trying to shake the fog from his head.

“And think of the ruin we could bring,” Ares’ voice fell low, sultry. He leaned in to whisper directly into Achilles ear. “Of the ruin that we did bring. Once I finally managed to send gentle Patroclus to the Styx myself.” 

Achilles heard himself roar in pain, heard Lord Ares’ cruel laughter echo torturous and cruel through his head. He saw his own spear jab uselessly at the god of war, he saw red, and then he saw no more.

\---

Being lost in his own thoughts was so commonplace to Patroclus, that hearing a new voice echoing within the confines of his mind was even more jarring than it should have been. He had just been quietly daydreaming of the best way to ask Achilles about building a small house in the glade, complete with a garden that neither of them would know how to tend, but a bed that they could tend very well, and was imagining his beloved’s fond and exasperated laughter, when the voice interrupted.

_“May I have a word, gentle Patroclus?”_

Patroclus scrambled to stand, looking around him, despite recognizing already with some dread the voice’s source. As his eyes drew upwards, he saw that which had appeared to be a facsimile of Helios’ chariot fall from the heavens, stopping short where he stood. Patroclus shielded his eyes as the light faded and the bronzed, armoured figure of Athena stood in front of him. 

Had there been but one god that had kept his love after the mess of a war that had cost him his life, however little, and however cynical a love it may have been, it would have been Lady Athena. He bowed regardless of the doubt stirring in his chest regarding her sudden and unexpected appearance. 

“Lady Athena,” he bowed. “I’d not thought that Olympians could visit the domain of the dead.” 

“You mean you had _hoped_ that we could not,” Athena corrected him with a small smile. 

“I would never,” Patroclus lied with some humour, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. 

“After what we’ve put you through, I cannot blame you. Please stand.” 

Patroclus drew himself up, and remained silent. The goddess towered over him, a living statue of bronze and gold, her expression just as stoic. Her eyes flitted quickly to examine him, as though she were trying to determine how best to strike. 

Patroclus stood at attention and awaited her command, which seemed once again to amuse the goddess.

“You would follow my lead, even now?” she asked. 

“I was under the impression that I did not have a choice, my lady,” Patroclus answered in the same tone as before. 

“It is not my way to deprive mortals of choice,” Athena said. “There are simply consequences for those who choose otherwise.” 

“To avoid that fate then,” Patroclus said. “Please, my lady. What is your will?”

“My brother Ares has taken advantage of our uncle’s kindness for his own amusement,” Athena said. Her expression clouded over. “He seeks to incite a hero to which he previously had no access to displace the balance of Elysium for his gain.” 

Patroclus felt his heart rise to his throat, and knew the answer to his next question before even asking it. “And this hero. I presume that I know him.”

“...yes.” 

“Should you not warn Lord Hades?” Patroclus tried to fend off the panic that threatened to choke off his voice. “Why would you waste your time here instead?”

Athena was now regarding him with something like sympathy, something like pity. “By the time I realized what he was doing, it was already too late.”

Patroclus felt the full force of the news strike him directly in the heart, as true as any sword could have in life. He staggered backwards, still unwilling to believe. “Surely it will burn out? As it has always done?” 

“This is like nothing of what you’ve witnessed in Achilles in life,” Athena shook her head. “The only time brother Ares managed to provoke Achilles thus on the surface, it ended—”

“With his death?” Patroclus interrupted, his voice sharp. 

Athena frowned, but said nothing.

“And you are here to choose your champion now? Is that what this is?” Patroclus forgot all pleasantries as a slow, but raw fury began to burn in his chest. “Just another game for the gods? And we the pieces?”

“Watch yourself, shade,” Athena’s voice grew stern, but not unkind. “I am here to help you.”

Patroclus looked away and did not answer. He did not realize he was shaking until he felt Athena’s steady, cold hand on his shoulder. 

“I am here to fix that which I could not fix while you lived.”

While Patroclus was often at the whim of a passing thought, and indeed had a reputation for it, a memory surfaced so concrete and so unbidden that it must have been placed before him by the goddess herself. 

He blinked and he was on the dusty fields of Troy again, in his last moments. His spear lay broken beside him, having been bested by Hector’s sword, and the prince himself stood above him, ready to deliver the final blow. As his arm came down, a bronze gleam flickered around Patroclus, throwing Hector back. Thankfully, the memory faded before Hector could attempt his second strike, which Patroclus remembered with horrifying clarity. Instead, Patroclus was in his glade, basking in the glow of Athena’s light, having just learned that Achilles was lost to him again. Patroclus wasn’t certain which was the worse circumstance. He took a long breath, and considered his options. Perhaps cynicism would not serve him best here.

“You tried to save me,” Patroclus blinked up at the goddess. “Why?”

“Because you acted to save your men and to save his honour,” Athena replied. “And because your death seemed an unfair trade.”

“Life is not always fair, is it?” Patroclus observed with a bitter smile. 

“Neither is death, it would seem,” Athena answered, her lips twisting into a grimace. 

“What is it that you would have me do, then?” He finally asked.

Something about this question seemed to lessen some of the tension in the air. 

“There is a reason why brother Ares was only able to succeed after your death,” Athena said. “For all his strength as a warrior, Achilles rarely worshipped at my altar, whereas you would before each and every battle. Why?”

“Are the gods not omniscient?” Patroclus asked wryly. 

“Humour me,” Athena smiled patiently at him. 

“Achilles fought for glory,” Patroclus answered. “He was reckless, relentless on the battlefield and he was rewarded for it. I mean no offense, my lady, but that is not your way. Nor is it mine.”

“None taken.” Instead, Athena looked pleased. 

“I...always fought beside him because I had to,” Patroclus continued. “To defend him. To make sure that he would come home.” 

“And you succeeded,” Athena said gently. “But you will need to do so once more.” 

“So it would seem,” Patroclus took another steadying breath, knowing now there was no other option, at least, not one that he could abide by. He retrieved his spear, one that had now spent more days propped in the ground in disuse than it had in action during his days alive. “I fear though that I’ve not the strength for this task, my lady.” 

“Strength is not all,” Athena shook her head. “You and you alone can do this.”

She reached down and placed her hand on the crown of his head. He bowed in a reverence more true than any he had felt in life. He could feel a heavy coolness flow from the spot where she had touched that heated almost the instant he sensed it. It caught fire on his skin, ran hot through his veins, and he gasped as it wrapped itself tightly around his heart. A chill reminiscent of cold metal bit at his core before bursting into an almost unbearable warmth, a shield in itself against the task that now stood in front of him. He looked down at his hand to find it encased in liquid bronze. The metal shimmered once before fading completely. 

“Go then, gentle Patroclus,” Athena said softly, her light already dimming. “Go bring him home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> I can't help but feel as though I overdid the sappiness in this ending, but feel like I kind of owe it to them. Please note that there is definitely more violence and blood in this chapter. 
> 
> I'm still playing around with an alternate ending to this story, and will link it as a series if it is ever complete! 
> 
> Would love to hear your thoughts if you had the time!

When Patroclus left his glade for the first time since he arrived in it, he was certain of his task. After fending off the first wave of shades the next glade over, he was certain he would fail.

While he had been an exceptional fighter in life, he had never been the best. And now, facing some of the best, he felt the weight in his limbs, fumbled with even his most basic maneuvers. The other Elysian shades that approached him had spent every moment since their arrival itching to fight, while Patroclus had sworn not to. Were it not for Athena’s boon, the bronze shield that fended off at least some of the attacks that he himself could not, he was certain he would not have made it through the first chamber at all. 

He took a moment to catch his breath in front of the exit, half hoping that he would find Achilles on the other side of the door, half hoping he would not. 

Patroclus startled at the sound of metal scraping against its frame, but saw that it was not the door in front of him that had opened: it was the one behind. 

“Sir!” Zagreus called, arriving by his side before Patroclus could even reply. He scanned the empty chamber and looked at Patroclus with an awe that he did not feel was deserved. “You’ve done my work for me.” 

“Barely,” Patroclus shook his head. “Have you seen—”

“Achilles?” One look at Zagreus’ face and Patroclus could tell he already knew. “I’m...on my way to find him myself. Father’s furious. At Lord Ares,” he added more gently, likely seeing the panic on Patroclus’ face. 

“He’s in the stadium,” Zagreus continued, an odd look flickering across his features. “He’s already defeated Theseus and Asterius. I think…” he faltered. 

“He means to stay there,” Patroclus confirmed, having faced Achilles’ old moods enough to know.

“Has...this happened before?” Zagreus asked. Patroclus noted that Zagreus was careful not to put the blame on Achilles, and was grateful for it. 

“When we were alive, sometimes after a battle…” Patroclus hesitated. “It would take some time for me to bring him back.” 

“Ah,” Zagreus nodded, looking relieved. “But you’ve done so before?”

“Lady Athena suggests that this is different. How, I’m not certain. Even less certain about how to bring him back to himself.” 

“Maybe it can be bled out,” Zagreus frowned thoughtfully. “If it were a boon I mean.” 

Patroclus raised an eyebrow. 

“I do it sometimes myself,” Zagreus explained. “And shades seem to have some sort of blood still.”

“I suppose that is for us to find out,” Patroclus mused. He spun his spear in his hand to test its weight again. 

“Sir...I’m…” 

Patroclus waited, not entirely certain about what it was that Zagreus was trying to say. 

“...I’m sorry for what we have to do,” he finally managed helplessly.

The words made the task that stood before Patroclus all the more real, and his heart ached at the inevitability of it. 

“That does not change our course,” Patroclus said. Zagreus was giving him the same look that he often would before he had managed to bring Achilles back to him, one that was a tumult of sorrow, sympathy, anger. “But I am glad to have your help.”

Zagreus blinked in surprise at the rare compliment. 

“Of course, sir,” Zagreus answered, recognizing the gesture of thanks right away. “Come! Let’s go knock some sense into him.” 

Zagreus hurried forward, and therefore did not see the pain flicker across Patroclus’ face at this suggestion.

Together, Patroclus and Zagreus made easy work of the rest of Elysium, and arrived at the doors of its stadium. They exchanged a quick look before opening them.

The bleachers of the arena were packed. Judging by Zagreus’ expression, Patroclus guessed that it was an extraordinary turnout. It wasn’t every day after all that the champions were deposed by a shade who had no intention of leaving. 

Achilles was easy to find.

He had somehow refashioned Theseus’ chariot into something that resembled a golden throne, and had positioned it on top of one of the thick pillars in the stadium that did not quite reach the ceiling, where shades would usually sit. He sat upon it now, one leg propped up so that his chiton was hitched far too high on his hips, revealing long expanses of bronzed skin, and the toned muscles of his thighs. His chin rested listlessly on his hand, and his pointer finger extended to support the side of his head. The light from the stadium gleamed across the golden splendor of the Tau-Lambda, but to Patroclus, Daedalus’ work paled in comparison to the glow that kissed his Achilles’ hair, his skin, that made every ripple across every muscle glimmer with a divine radiance. Achilles fixed his burning red eyes upon Patroclus as he entered, an arrogant smile upon his lips, looking like a veritable god himself, and Patroclus could not deny that something in this look was absolutely beguiling. 

But this was not his Achilles. 

Patroclus swallowed hard and stood tall. 

“Achilles, beloved. What is this?” He inquired mildly. 

Achilles’ lips curled into a sneer that did not become him as a shade, but had occasionally in life. His eyes, red and bloodshot, witnessed Patroclus’ entry to the stadium, witnessed his spear, and that was enough. He leapt high into the air, landing fist first onto the tile floor, cracking several panels upon impact. As he drew himself up and rolled his shoulders back, every muscle in his body seemed to flex impressively at the effort. Patroclus twisted his lips, trying his best to shake away the carnal attraction. 

“Sir…” 

The soft voice from behind him reminded Patroclus of Zagreus’ presence. 

“I think I need to do this alone, stranger,” he said absently, eyes still fixed upon Achilles. In turn, Achilles only had eyes for him. 

“But...you’ll—” 

“Die?” Patroclus asked, amused. “I already have.” 

He turned to find Zagreus looking at him, in great distress. 

“He could never hurt me,” Patroclus tried again more softly. “Not more than he already has.” 

Zagreus continued to look at him mutely, and somehow managed to look even more upset. He did not argue, however.

“Take to the stands,” Patroclus motioned to the empty seat next to Zagreus’ one fan, one that happened to be near a very agitated Theseus and a very resigned Asterius. “You can have your turn after this.” 

“Alright,” Zagreus nodded reluctantly. “I hope that I won’t need it.” 

“I hope so too,” Patroclus nodded, and turned his attention back to his lover. 

Achilles had watched their exchange with a barely repressed agitation. He was shaking with anticipation, and grasped at his spear so hard that his knuckles were bone white. 

“I’m not here to fight you,” Patroclus said gently after seeing that Zagreus had scrambled over the stadium walls safely. “I am here to take you home, beloved.” 

From across the floor, Achilles let a blood-curling roar be his answer, and charged at Patroclus full speed, his spear raised to kill. Any other man or shade would have faltered at the sight. It only strengthened Patroclus’ resolve.

Patroclus dodged the first attack easily: it had been loud, bold, and just incredibly boring. He turned swiftly to parry the second jab that he knew was coming. Achilles had always been quick, but predictable. They danced for a while in this way: Patroclus’ body and spear quickly remembered the motions from their youth. But something felt different—never had Achilles charged at him with this blind aggression that must have been reserved for his enemies on the battlefield. Never had he seen such dead coldness in Achilles’ eyes. It was the latter that finally caused Patroclus to falter. As in life, Achilles was quick to take advantage. 

“Ngh!” Patroclus grunted as he tripped on the end of Achilles’ spear. He rolled onto his back, but Achilles was already there. Achilles fell onto Patroclus hard, pinning him painfully in the chest with his knee. 

“Sir, no!” Zagreus shouted desperately from the stands. 

Achilles didn’t react to the plea. He flashed a feral grin at Patroclus and aimed at his head for the kill. 

Patroclus gasped. 

The crowd roared. 

Just as the spear would have hit flesh, a hard bronze light flashed to meet it, and Achilles was thrown back several feet from the impact, as though he had actually hit metal instead of air. Patroclus wheezed, his lungs grasping for the breath that he did not actually need in death. He blinked and he was in Troy again, Hector standing over him with that same determined leer and those same red, bloodshot eyes. It was too close. He could not— 

“Sir, get up!” Zagreus screamed. 

Patroclus blinked again. But of course. Hector had been an admirable warrior in his own right, but the frenzy with which he had attacked...it could only have been one thing, could only have been one god’s boon. Patroclus rolled to his feet and Achilles’ spear hit the ground when he lay, just a second too late. 

And now this god who had taken Patroclus’ life, had caused him so much pain for so long, who had torn Achilles from him once already—now he had infected Patroclus’ beloved. 

Patroclus struck the ground hard with the blunt side of his spear and turned, baring his teeth. Behind him, Achilles had already retrieved his spear, and was poised to strike again. No, not his Achilles. Something ignited in Patroclus, something that had long only been an ember waiting for fuel. And nothing fueled him quite like the need to protect that which was his.

“You can’t have him!” Patroclus hissed. He faked a lunge to Achilles’ right, what he knew to be Achilles’ stronger side. Achilles parried, and Patroclus used the momentum of it to spin, and stabbed to the left instead, gashing Achilles’ arm. 

Achilles grunted, staggering back and grabbing a hold of his bicep. He drew the hand away to find it covered with blood. Patroclus winced. The crowd cheered its approval. 

Legends claimed that Achilles could only be mortally wounded in one spot: the ankle by which his mother Thetis held him as she dipped him into the River Styx. However, the manner by which all shades arrived in Elysium had taken away that advantage.

Achilles observed his hand with great interest. He looked up to lock eyes with Patroclus as he licked it clean. Giving a low, pleased growl, Patroclus’ only warning, Achilles came at him again.

\--- 

From the stands, Zagreus was leaning so far forward on the railing in front that he was at risk of falling over it. 

“What happens to shades when you die here?” he asked no one in particular. 

“Hmph,” Theseus crossed his arms. “I don’t know why you would ask me. I am hardly an expert on this topic, given the incredibly few times it’s—”

“The many times that you have defeated us,” Asterius cut in. “We returned to the House by way of the river, as I presume you do as well. The Styx heals all ailments. We are then sent back to Elysium.” 

Theseus crossed his arms and scowled. 

“So that’s all Patroclus needs to do then?” Zagreus turned now to face Asterius. “Defeat him?”

“You presume much, short one,” Asterius snorted. “First, that his skill could bear the burden of such a task as besting swift-footed Achilles.” 

The crowd roared in approval as Patroclus managed to draw blood again, this time from Achilles’ thigh. The look on his face though from inflicting even this small scrape...Zagreus felt his heart ache even only just witnessing it.

“And second,” Asterius continued, his eyes fixed on exactly the same thing. “That his heart could do the same.” 

\--- 

Patroclus gripped his spear with both hands to steady them as he watched Achilles stagger from his blow. They had injured each other while sparring when they were still alive, but never with such an intent. 

Achilles fell to one knee and keened, and Patroclus’ heart broke. He approached cautiously still, spear raised. 

“...beloved?” 

Achilles’ spear reacted before the rest of his body did, thrusting forward to slash deep at Patroclus side. It hit Athena’s shield instead, but Achilles rounded quickly to try again.

“Ngh!” Patroclus fell back, grasping at his torso. 

Achilles sneered at him, his exaggerated injury forgotten. 

“Alright,” Patroclus muttered through clenched teeth. “So that’s the way we’re playing then.”

Patroclus had no pretensions of actually being able to defeat Achilles in combat, but he did have a plan: a dangerous, singular plan that left no room for error. 

The first step was already in motion. 

Patroclus understood the principle of bleeding out the boons that Zagreus had mentioned earlier, and was fairly certain it would work in practice, as long as his strength didn’t give out first. 

The second step was to ensure his strength didn’t give out first. 

He and Achilles circled each other yet again, spears raised. They repeated the pattern: Achilles would rush him, Patroclus would parry, or fall, or just barely dodge, and they would once again fall into this stalemate. They had each drawn blood several times, and Athena’s grace had saved Patroclus on more than one occasion. Patroclus began to wonder though at its limits. 

Achilles seemed to be tiring of their game. He stopped in place, poised like a wild animal ready to pounce. Patroclus stood ready to deflect. Without warning, Achilles lunged at him, almost quicker than Patroclus could track. He side-stepped to the left, raising his spear to bat Achilles’ out of the way, but Achilles’ spear wasn’t there: his lover had somehow ducked low to the right, and was now aiming for Patroclus’ thigh. The bronze shield threw him back, but Achilles countered the momentum by throwing his spear forward. It hit Patroclus firmly in the side. He cried out, falling to his knees. 

“Patroclus!” Zagreus watched in horror, his hands gripping the bannister. He moved to leap over it, but Asterius grabbed his shoulder. 

“He is not done yet.” 

“Are you talking about Patroclus or Achilles?” Zagreus turned to glare at him. 

Asterius only nodded towards the arena again, and Zagreus watched as Patroclus staggered to his feet.

Achilles had already retrieved his spear and was pacing once again. He licked his lips like a predator certain of his prey. 

Patroclus heaved long breaths, leaning on his spear while pressing his other hand hard to his side. The blood was dripping through his fingers and down his legs, and Patroclus could swear that he could feel the pulse of the River Styx just below his feet. He grit his teeth and turned his attention to his opponent once again. Ready or not, time for step three.

\---

Time meant little to the immortals, and yet here Athena was, intentionally dragging her feet like a petulant child called to a dinner with family she did not like. She stood outside Aphrodite’s house, considering for perhaps the tenth time whether it might not be easier just to leave. The door opened, robbing her of this option. 

Aphrodite beamed at her. “Goddess Athena! You’re finally here to take up my offer?” 

“No,” Athena said. Several pink ribbons were already twining themselves into her hair. Her left eye twitched. 

“Oh, but we have so much work to do,” Aphrodite pouted. “Best start early if you’re ever going to find—”

“No,” Athena said more emphatically. “But thank you for your kindness,” she added.

“‘Kindness’? Oh, now I know you want something,” Aphrodite laughed coyly. She stepped aside and gestured for Athena to enter. Athena checked all corners before stepping through the door with great caution. 

“Please, what exactly are you so worried about finding here in my House?” Aphrodite fluttered her eyes prettily. “An eligible man?”

Athena pursed her lips tight. 

Aphrodite leaned in. “Or perhaps, an eligible woman? I could arrange—”

“Are you done?” Athena interrupted, rolling her eyes with frustration. 

The goddess of love giggled. “I’m just teasing, dearest. Such a prude. Come.” 

Aphrodite settled on a reclining chaise, and motioned for Athena to sit as well. Athena perched herself stiffly on a plush chair, and began to pull at the ribbons still attempting to braid themselves into her hair. She handed them back to Aphrodite. Aphrodite looked disappointed.

“So what is it then?” 

“Ares has taken advantage of our uncle’s good graces.” Athena shifted uncomfortably. The chair was too soft. 

“You mean with that pretty little blond shade?” Aphrodite looked down at her nails. “He did miss that one so.” 

“They are beyond our jurisdiction,” Athena answered, her voice brokering no argument. “Ares has no right to meddle.” 

“And yet he has,” Aphrodite rolled her eyes. “Ever be it his way. But what exactly is it that you’re here for then, if they are ‘beyond our jurisdiction’?” She tried to mimic the metal in Athena’s voice and failed miserably. 

“I mean to make things right,” Athena replied. 

“And what would you have _me_ do?” Aphrodite’s eyes darted up to meet Athena’s with a shrewdness for which she was not often known. 

“I’ve visited Elysium as well,” Athena admitted after some hesitation. “And have given my blessing to Patroclus. I believe that aiding him is the path that will do the least amount of damage.” 

“To our family, or to these two poor little darlings?” Aphrodite asked with a coy smile. 

Athena frowned. “The damage is done regardless. For all of us.” 

“And you would have me help Patroclus as well?” Aphrodite guessed. “Moreso that I already have?” 

“You could convince Achilles—”

“All this time and you _still_ don’t understand how this works, do you?” Aphrodite looked genuinely exasperated. 

Athena just blinked at her. 

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Aphrodite sighed. “Look.”

She reached forward for an ornate pitcher that sat on the table, filled to the brim with sweet nectar. 

“Let’s say this is love. There are many different kinds of love, and many degrees to it, and so many different nuances. It’s all very complicated,” Aphrodite added proudly. 

Athena motioned for her to get on with it. 

“Oh, fine,” Aphrodite pouted. “Let’s say, I bless Achilles with love for...oh, I don’t know, these grapes.” 

Aphrodite reached for the fruit and poured some nectar on it. 

“That’s it. That’s done.” 

“I don’t understand,” Athena frowned. 

“Love is not something so simple that it can be commanded, like your armies, Athena dear,” Aphrodite explained with another sigh. “I can offer it, certainly. But what these mortals deign to do with it, how much or how little they decide to devote their heart to it, that is for the Fates. Or for Master Chaos. Or perhaps it might even be for the mortals themselves.” 

“I could never have imagined how dear Achilles and Patroclus would have become to each other, in life and in death,” Aphrodite smiled a pleased smile and put the pitcher down. “And it warms my heart that their love is one for the ages.” 

“But before Patroclus, Achilles was destined for blood, and for greatness and glory. For _war_. His love for either is not for me to control.”

Athena looks at the grapes, sticky and shiny with nectar that was now also pooling on the table. “This is a poor illustration of your point.” 

Aphrodite scowled and was about to speak when Athena interrupted again. “But I understand your meaning, and know your work better now. Thank you.” 

Aphrodite looked pacified. A small cup appeared in her hand, and she filled it with nectar before handing it to Athena and filling another. 

“Good,” she nodded, and lifted the cup before taking a small sip. “So you get it.” 

“Yes,” Athena did the same, although the sweetness of the liquid didn’t quench the bitter taste on her tongue. “It is on Patroclus to fight for Achilles.” 

Aphrodite took another sip. “And it is on Achilles to decide what it is that he loves more.” 

\--- 

Legends claimed that swift-footed Achilles was invulnerable save for one spot, but Patroclus knew better. Achilles had one other weakness: one that pierced straight through his heart and led directly to Patroclus himself. Having neither the skill nor the heart to aim for the first, Patroclus would need to hit the second with pinpoint accuracy. 

Taking another long breath to steel himself, Patroclus pushed his weight from his spear and began to advance slowly towards Achilles. 

“Do you not know me, beloved?” He called, his voice ringing clear amidst the hush that had fallen across the crowd. “Despite the many days we’ve spent as children learning this art together?” 

Achilles snarled and threw his spear forward. His body lunged with it with a superhuman speed. The bronze shield flickered around Patroclus, deflecting both the attack and Achilles himself, who hit the wall of the stadium so hard that it cracked. Achilles shook off the impact, his eyes narrowing with fury. Patroclus only blinked patiently at him. 

Achilles sprinted, spear raised to his ear, and he managed to land a blow before Patroclus could lift his own weapon to block. Patroclus grunted as the spearpoint gashed the side of his neck, but he rounded to slash at the back of Achilles’ legs. Achilles hissed, stumbling forward, and he turned to fix his eyes on Patroclus yet again. There was something new though in his eyes—a flicker of something that was gone as quick as it was there.

“Do you not know me, beloved?” Patroclus asked again. “Despite the evenings we’ve spent in your tent, together and alive and revelling in the miracle of both these things?” 

Achilles flinched, and shook his head, as though to rid himself of a pest circling it. Patroclus pressed on. 

“Despite the many kisses and caresses we’ve shared with each other, and no one else?” he asked more softly. 

Achilles hesitated. He stumbled back several steps, and seemed to lose his resolve for the first time since the battle began. His eyes achieved a moment of clarity before turning bright red once more. Shaking his head, Achilles roared and turned on Patroclus, moving fast to outpace Patroclus, but not Athena’s grace. His spear bounced hard off of the bronze shield, and Achilles was thrown halfway across the arena. 

It was now or never. 

Patroclus walked towards Achilles, his pace slow and steady. Achilles huffed, his eyes narrowing, confused at the game Patroclus was playing. 

“Do you not know me, beloved?” Patroclus asked quietly. “Despite all the days we’ve spent apart? Despite all my longing, yearning? Despite the days or nights—I don’t know which—that I’ve spent dreaming of your possible lives without me?”

Achilles was breathing heavily, his face a battleground of its own of warring impulses. Something quivered behind his cold expression, some hint of recognition. He grunted, falling more heavily on his spear. 

Seeing this, Patroclus let his own drop to the ground. The crowd gasped and fell deathly still. 

“Despite the promises you’ve made me, new and old? Despite my patience?” Patroclus continued. “My unwavering devotion to you, immovable regardless of not knowing whether or not I would ever see you again? Whether you even wanted to see me again?”

Achilles wavered where he stood as Patroclus continued to approach, refusing to back away, or perhaps, unable to. His eyes darted quickly left and right before fixing on the most recent gash he had inflicted deep on the side of Patroclus’ neck. His breath hitched. Taking notice, and now within arm’s reach, Patroclus reached forward slowly to pull at Achilles’ free hand, and found it shaking. He guided it so that it was pressed firmly on the wound. “Do you not know me?”

Achilles reeled backwards as though he were burned by the touch. His eyes fixed on his own hand, now red and dripping with Patroclus’ blood. He wailed, a long and broken cry as realization and dread settled in his features, and Patroclus’ heart broke anew, but he could not trust him yet. Achilles reached forward to grasp at Patroclus without finesse but Patroclus dodged him easily. Achilles growled something unintelligible, the words caught in his throat. Patroclus shook his head. 

“No, beloved,” he chided. “Try again.” 

Achilles keened, and his spear fell from his hands. He looked up, his eyes no longer red or enraged, and now regarded Patroclus with clarity, and something that flickered between horror and shame. Still shaking, he fell to his knees. 

Patroclus kneeled to join him, taking both his hands in his own. 

“Achilles?” Patroclus asked softly.

“...Pat,” Achilles rasped. His eyes were fixed on the ground. Patroclus framed his beloved’s face with both hands, and gently drew him up so that he could look at him properly. Achilles blinked back at him, his eyes clear and blue and begging for forgiveness. 

“You’re back,” Patroclus murmured. He dipped forward to press a kiss against those soft, quivering lips, and Achilles yielded to him completely. 

The roar of the crowd brought them back. Achilles startled, and grasped at Patroclus more tightly. He nestled his head instinctively at Patroclus’ neck, not seeing the cut that was still working to heal, and Patroclus winced. Achilles drew back, his eyes lingering on the gash, and his entire body drew tense.

Patroclus gently wiped the blood from Achilles’ forehead and tucked him against his own chest so that Achilles could no longer see the wound, and wrapped his arms firmly around him. “Come. Let’s go before it gets embarrassing.”

Zagreus chose that moment to throw himself onto both of them in an awkward embrace, knocking all of them to the ground.

“Too late,” Patroclus mumbled. 

Achilles choked out a laugh despite himself. 

\---

It took them some time to disengage from the throngs of shades that descended upon them, even if they were there to provide accolades and not blows. They finally managed their escape when Asterius wordlessly pulled Theseus away, interrupting his repeated and escalating challenge to the Myrmidons. 

Zagreus led them to the Temple of Styx, and to the boat already waiting there for them there. 

“Charon will take you back to your glade, sirs,” Zagreus explained. “Father has asked that you stay there until he’s able to speak with the Olympians. I’m going to continue forward back to the House to see what’s going on.”

Patroclus nodded. “Alright. You’ll come back when you have news?”

“Yes, of course.” Zagreus hesitated in his step. “I’m going to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He spoke with the same determination with which he had insisted to Patroclus that he would bring Achilles back to him. 

Patroclus smiled humorlessly. “Stop the will of the gods? Forgive me if I doubt your ability in this regard.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Zagreus reminded him. “After all, I am one myself. And I’ve managed to foil the plans of my Lord father, haven’t I?”

“Ah.” Both were easy to forget. Despite Patroclus’ cynicism, some part of him had always believed that the stranger would follow through on his previous promise, and he searched himself to find that he felt the same now. “That was cruel of me. I apologize.” 

“No,” Zagreus shook his head firmly. “It was deserved. My extended family is…” He faltered. 

“As are most,” Patroclus agreed, not needing to hear the rest. “But there are good ones yet. If you can, please send Lady Athena my thanks.” 

“Of course.” Zagreus turned his attention to Achilles with concern. “Are you alright, sir?”

Achilles had been leaning heavily on Patroclus for support, and had retreated almost completely into Patroclus’ cloak. He started at hearing his name. 

“Yes, lad,” he whispered, lifting his head to give Zagreus a reassuring smile that wasn’t reassuring at all. 

Zagreus frowned, and Achilles realized the problem right away. 

“I’m in good hands,” he added. He grasped at Patroclus more tightly, and it made Patroclus’ heart clench. 

“I’ve got him,” he confirmed, pulling Achilles closer as well. 

Zagreus looked satisfied. “Alright. Take care. I’ll be back soon.”

The boat ride back was peaceful. The drifted past other glades, roaring waterfalls, past tall armoured statues, and even taller broken swords and shields, half buried in the lush green hills. A host of harmless butterflies floated past them listlessly, coming closer to examine them before taking off once again. They spent most of the trip in silence, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. Patroclus noted in passing that he had of course only been on this voyage one other time before (an idea he decided not to share out loud), but also that this might have been the most romantic thing they had ever done. He tried to share the latter as they pulled up to the familiar banks of Patroclus’ glade. Achilles gave him an awkward smile to humour him.

Patroclus thanked Charon as they disembarked. He groaned at them, and reached into his cloak to retrieve a small vase filled with water from the Styx, and pressed it into Patroclus’ free hand.

Patroclus blinked at him. “I have no coin for this, ferryman.” 

“Gnnnnnngh.” Charon waved it off, and began to leave. 

“Thank you,” Patroclus called after him. 

He tugged at Achilles, guiding him to their usual sitting spot. As often was the case since their deaths, Achilles allowed himself to be led. Once they were seated, Patroclus began to pull gently at Achilles’ armor and cloak, leaving him only in his loose chiton. Working with a gentle and patient hand, Patroclus examined every wound he had inflicted and dipping the edge of his own cloak into the vase, caressed each cut with its red waters. Achilles grasped his wrist lightly when he had finished, taking the vase from him. Patroclus understood, and began to undo his own armor and cloak. Achilles returned the favour, working much more slowly because of his shaking hands. Patroclus grasped his hands with his own, steadying them, and gave Achilles a reassuring smile. Achilles tried to return it. 

Once Achilles had finished, Patroclus drew him into his arms again, and Achilles grasped at him with all the desperation of that very first time he had arrived here. 

Patroclus waited, stroking Achilles’ back while he did so. 

“I...” Achilles tried. 

“That better not be an apology,” Patroclus said lightly when Achilles could not finish.

“But—”

“No. I won’t have it.” Patroclus pressed a kiss to Achilles’ lips to stop him. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“How can you be so generous?” Achilles breathed the question into his neck. The cut along the side of it was no longer bleeding, and the white scar was already fading away.

“That shade I fought in the stadium wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t me?” Achilles interrupted, his voice crackling with bitterness. “But he was. And has been in life. You’ve seen it.” His frame collapsed forward and he hid his face in his own lap. 

“It is a part of you,” Patroclus allowed. He gently pulled Achilles back so that Achilles would face him and leaned forward so that their foreheads touched. “But it is not who you want to be. And that makes the difference.” 

Patroclus could feel his argument ease some of the tension in Achilles’ frame, so he pressed on. 

“Tell me, now that you are yourself. Given the choice between the glory of war and m—”

“You,” Achilles interrupted immediately. His voice softened, and he slipped down to settle again at Patroclus’ neck, kissing the fully healed wound before doing so. “Every time.” 

Patroclus hummed, and nuzzled closer in response. 

“When Ares came to me, he...said that he had caused your death.” Achilles closed his eyes. “And then I was lost.” 

“And I was there to bring you back,” Patroclus answered. “I always will.”

Achilles tilted his head to look at him in awe, and Patroclus blushed under the heat of it. Achilles pressed a kiss tenderly on Patroclus’ lips, nudging at him with an insistent weight until Patroclus fell backwards to the ground so that Achilles could fall on top of him. Patroclus smiled fondly up at him. 

“What do you need, beloved?” 

“What I’ve always needed from you,” Achilles murmured with naked and open affection. “Show me I’m made for more than war. Make me whole.” 

“Gladly,” Patroclus reached for the clasps to Achilles’ armor and pressed another sweet kiss to his beloved’s lips. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/fireflyquill)


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